For once, from the staid confines of my London office, I got that thrill just now of a wild frisson, reverberating like past summers on the river, echoing like, well, thunder because that’s what’s passing over greater London now this mid afternoon.
For any fisherman that wild promise of torrential summer rain can make the neck hairs stand up because it means one thing: fish. The fish – silver bullets, salmon, sea-trout will be running from the estuarial waters up into the middle river.
Now I have not fished this year. But I am going next month and something for a long time has been stirring.
And now I remember what it is.